


Thyme and Tide

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen), seleneheart



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, Don't stop believing, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Illustrated, M/M, Mercenary Bucky Barnes, Minor Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov, Mutual Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14817947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seleneheart/pseuds/seleneheart
Summary: Bucky might be only a one-armed ex-mercenary who'd washed up, half-drowned, on the shores of Sciatha with nothing and nowhere—never mind how hard Captain Rogers, head of Sciatha's Royal Guard, was trying to change that—but even he knew better than to get involved with the fae.Unfortunately, that wisdom had somehow bypassed Sciatha's ancient kings…and fae bargains always came due.





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank Seleneheart for creating the lovely art I was lucky enough to get the chance to write for, which was entirely responsible for sparking this fic to life, and for being absolutely amazing to work with, and for creating so many extra pieces of wonderful art. Seriously, such a joy. Also, thank you to the CapRBB mods for being absolute legends and keeping the Bang rolling along so smoothly. And to Nonymos, for being a beta-extraordinaire (but any errors are mine, because I can't leave well enough alone).
> 
>  **Sciatha** is pronounced sigh-ath-a; it's derived from the [Old Irish word for shield](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/sciath#Irish).
> 
>   
>    
> 

"Oh no."

Every hair on the back of Bucky's neck rose, every muscle went tight, every inch of him thrummed with alertness, with awareness, because he'd never heard Steve sound like that.  

He hadn't known Steve _could_ sound like that: like a tidal wave was poised to crash over him and it was pointless to try and get out of the way.

Bucky lowered his sword, pushed sweaty hair out of his face, and took one step closer to Steve. Steve, who was staring at the wild thyme that grew against the walls of the training grounds. Truth was, it grew everywhere, the only place in the kingdom you didn't find it was on the beach, but in three years Bucky had never seen it bloom.

It was blooming now, covered in vibrant flowers of purple and pink.

Steve swallowed hard, Bucky could see his throat working, and pushed past Bucky to brush his fingers over the tiny flowers.

"Steve?" he asked, alert, ready to fight, but he didn't know how to fight a flower. He didn't know how to protect Steve from a bush.

From the way Steve jumped, Bucky knew he'd forgotten Bucky was there.

That scared him. Steve didn't _do_ that, didn't lose awareness of his surroundings. He just didn't.

"Is everything okay?"

For one moment more, Steve stared at the flowers. Then he broke off a stalk, flavouring the air around them with the fragrant scent of thyme.

"No," he said, turning to face Bucky. "I really don't think it is."


	2. Three Years Ago

Maybe seeking passage on a run-down ship with a questionable crew hadn't been the smartest idea for someone with one arm, but it's not like options had been lining up to offer themselves to Bucky. Options generally didn't for a one-armed ex-mercenary who'd never known anything, who _didn't_ know anything, but fighting and killing and bargaining for the best fee he could get. Maybe it would have been different if he'd been part of a Company, with trusted companions who trusted him, but he'd never quite managed to get that far.

 _Someday_ , he'd always thought. _Someday_.

But before _someday_ could come he'd taken a vicious blow from an axe, fighting in a petty battle between two pettier lords for nothing but status in even pettier highborn society. The Lord who'd hired him had had skilled healers in his retinue, ones who could easily have saved his arm, but they'd refused to treat him. Their skills were reserved for their Lord's men and he'd been only a lowly mercenary.

He'd lost the arm. He'd nearly lost his life. He had lost almost every bit of savings he'd managed to scrape together, and he'd effectively lost his livelihood.

Bucky had boarded the ship, the cheapest he could find that would carry him across the straits, because the coastal nations were the trading nations, and he'd hoped he could pick up work as a caravan guard. He could still swing a sword, he could still ride a horse, and that should be enough.

 _If_ he could get someone to talk to him after they spotted his lack of arm.

Now that he was trying to keep himself afloat in the rough seas of the strait, with only one arm and a broken, waterlogged barrel that reeked of old beer, he was rethinking the wisdom of his plan.

The storm had rolled over them from nowhere, like the gods of the sea had taken personal affront to the ship's presence. Given its condition, Bucky couldn't blame them. He'd been on deck with everyone else who'd had the strength to haul a rope, or secure sails, or batten a hatch, or whatever you did to save a ship from a storm that wanted to tear it to pieces—Bucky could follow orders, but he didn't speak mariner—when the wave had crashed over the deck.

There'd been no chance. He'd hung onto the rope with his one arm and his teeth, sinking them into the rough hemp, but it hadn't been enough; the wave had dragged him over, like it'd been hunting just for him. Which wasn't true. Bucky wasn't alone. He'd seen others go over. But he was the only one who didn't have two arms to try and keep his head above the water.

The seas had tossed him and turned him and thrown a broken barrel his way. He'd lunged for it and clung to it like the true love he'd never had.

The ship was a distant silhouette, lightning crashed in the sky, the wind whipped the sea into neverending waves, and he draped himself over his cracked piece of wooden hope, pulling himself forward with his arm as best he could as the night turned into swim and salt and the reek of beer, and darkness was all he knew.

 

***

 

Steve took a lot of ribbing about his morning runs. Not a _huge_ amount—he was the Captain of the Royal Guard, direct servant to Their Royal Majesties, and in unspoken charge of the castle, after all—but people did find it amusing.

For some reason they never seemed to put _runs every morning_ together with the fact that he could outlast anyone in a fight.

He was following his usual route, through the fields surrounding the castle, past the rocky hills where he'd often share his run with a dozen or more curious goats, and down to the beach, where, depending on the time of year, he'd strip down to almost nothing and toss himself in the ocean to cool down.

He wouldn’t be doing that today. The sky was a sullen iron grey, the air still cool and charged with leftover warning from last night's storm.

It didn't do to push the sea on days like this.

As Steve ran along the beach, the sand squeaking under his bare feet, he spotted a lump in the distance, lying half in and half out of the waves. He changed course to check it out, but he wasn't surprised. The ocean was forever delivering things, dropping them on the beach like a proud cat. Sometimes things they wanted, sometimes things they didn't, but mostly it was junk. After the storm, he'd have been more surprised not to find something.

As he got closer, he realised it wasn't a _lump_. It was a _man_. A man easily mistaken for a lump of ocean detritus, granted, curled as he was into a ball and tangled with seaweed. Steve put on a burst of speed and hit the sand next to him, pushing tattered clothes heavy with seawater out of the way to press his fingers against the man's neck.

His skin was clammy and cold, but Steve could feel the thrum of blood rushing through his veins, could feel the beat that meant his heart was strong and steady.

Not dead. Steve sighed in relief. He hated finding them dead.

Steve gently rolled him over, and the man groaned, stirring slightly, which was when Steve saw he was missing an arm. An old injury, Steve realised after some careful exploration, nothing that was going to threaten the man's life now. But he was cold and wet and there was no way of knowing if he was injured internally on top of the bruising and scrapes Steve could see.

Steve stood, the water swirling around his feet, and carefully assessed the man the ocean had brought them. Tall, and Steve had felt muscles while he was making sure of the missing arm, but he wasn't bulky.

Steve could probably carry him.

No, Steve _could_ carry him. He would carry him. He wasn't going to leave him here alone, not even for the time it took to fetch help and a horse.

There was no way of knowing who this man was, of knowing what he was, but Steve would rather assume he was a good man and be proven wrong than treat a good man like a danger. It helped that he had the luxury of knowing his Queens would agree.

With a grunt, Steve scooped the man up. His only reaction was to feebly wave his arm, his hand briefly shoving weakly against Steve's chest before it fell to rest across his waist.

He might not be dead, but he was dead weight, water streaming off him. Still, he was manageable. Steve shifted his hold, held him close, and began to walk back to the castle by the thankfully much shorter direct route.

 

***

 

Bucky woke to the feel of fresh sheets against his skin, to warmth, to the scent of clean, homey smells.

He could hear distant, muffled sounds, voices, laughter. He glanced around, and it made sense he couldn’t hear anything clearly: the walls were stone, the door to the room he was in was closed. Nothing else made sense, though. The sheets were barely scratchy at all. The bed was solid wood and he was lying on a stuffed mattress, not woven rope, he had a _pillow_ , there was a table in the corner, with a chair. The room was tiny, but everything in it was quality; compared to what he was used to it all screamed luxury.

"Where in the hells am I?" he muttered, fighting back the first niggling trickle of fear, because there was no reason for him to be somewhere like this and, if there was a reason, it wasn't going to be anything good.

He sat up, a little dizzy but it passed. He was naked, but he dealt with that by grabbing the sheet in his teeth and using his arm to wrap it around his waist, securing it by tucking it in at the front.

He expected the door to be locked. It wasn't.

Cautiously, he eased it open a crack, just enough to see out. He could see armed men and women, well armoured in leather and chainmail, standing around a huge open space, the ceiling high above. There were weapons racks and dummy weapons and targets around the edges. It was a training room. He'd seen them before in the castles and keeps of highborns. Other doors opened off it, and he wondered if there were more rooms like the one he was being…

Here his mind screeched to a halt. Kept in? Held in? Was he a prisoner? He hadn't done anything wrong, but generally highborns didn't need an actual reason.  

Two of the men faced off, both with swords and shield, the others clearing away, and as he watched them launch into combat everything else was driven out of his mind.

One was tall and broad and blond and the way he moved… Bucky's entire life had been spent either fighting or with fighters. He'd grown up in merc camps. He'd seen every kind of highborn fighter there was, every kind of merc fighter there was, and he'd never seen anything like this.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

He was obviously holding himself in check so his dark-haired opponent could test himself, but even so, he reminded Bucky of the lion he'd once seen in a travelling circus. Lethal grace and lethal power. Contained, but there for anyone with eyes to see. 

Bucky pushed the door open farther, so he could get a better look, professional interest and the purely personal combining to hold him rapt.

The blond lion twisted, feinted, his shield as much a weapon as his sword, and was suddenly holding the dark-haired fighter's sword in one mail-gloved hand. He offered it back to him with a grin that faltered as he looked up and saw Bucky.

His attention drew everyone else's. Bucky found himself under the scrutiny of the dozen or so men and women and retreated, confused, unsure, needing the security of a choke point, even if he didn't have any weapons to make use of it.

The blond spoke quietly to them and they, not without a few curious looks at Bucky, left.

When it was just the two of them, he put his shield on the ground and set his sword on top of it before approaching Bucky. Bucky appreciated the gesture. Bucky was quite sure they were far from the only weapons he was carrying, but Bucky did appreciate the gesture. 

He stopped a few feet from Bucky. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused."

"I'll bet," he said with a smile. It was calm, quiet, understanding, and it tugged at something deep inside Bucky. "Let me help clear things up for you. I found you washed up on the beach. I brought you here. The healers say you're going to be just fine. You had some water in your lungs, some cuts and bruises, but nothing they couldn’t deal with."

It was good to know, but it didn't actually help. "And you are?"

"Oh. Right! Sorry." He rubbed his forehead. "I should have started with that. Captain Rogers, Royal Guard. But Steve, please." He pulled off one chainmail glove and offered his hand.

Bucky stared at it, trying to parse it out. Captain of the Royal Guard. The _Captain of the Royal Guard_ —and Bucky didn't know which _royal_ , but it didn't really matter, royalty was royalty—was introducing himself to Bucky and telling Bucky to call him Steve. That didn't happen. That's not how highborns and their people behaved.

"Do you think I'm someone important?" Bucky asked.

He had the momentary pleasure of seeing Steve blink, apparently nonplussed, before his expression smoothed into something gentle. "Yes."

That explained it. Mistaken identity. A mistake Bucky better clear up fast before he ended up tossed in a cell. "I'm not. I'm an ex-mercenary with a missing arm." And he froze for a second because he hadn't thought, he hadn't considered, that with only the sheet around his waist the scars, the ugly ropes of angry red scars, were standing out in stark relief against his skin. _He_ didn't care about them, not really. They were his, they were the natural result of the life he'd led, just like all the rest of his scars, but he couldn’t imagine someone like the Captain of the Royal Guard would have had much exposure to that kind of reality.  

But the Captain didn't seem to notice them, or at least he wasn't staring. He was waiting patiently for Bucky to continue, even if he'd let his hand fall.

"Whoever you think I am, I'm not. I'm not anybody. I'm sorry if you thought I was. Whatever I owe you for looking after me, I'll," he had nothing, literally nothing, the little he'd owned had been on the ship, which meant it was either stolen or at the bottom of the straits, "find a way to pay you back."

The Captain looked pained. Bucky wasn't surprised. Finding out you'd been caring for someone like Bucky would no doubt have that effect. 

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Bucky."

"Okay, Bucky. I hear what you're saying, but you're wrong."

"What am I wrong about?"

"About being someone important."

It was Bucky's turn to blink at him. "You don't think I'm the secret lost heir to wherever this is, do you? Because that only happens in minstrels' tales, not in real life."

The Captain's laugh was bright, glorious, beautiful, seemed to warm the air around them. "No, no, I don't, but that's great. I like that. Secret lost heir. No." His eyes caught Bucky's and held them as every trace of laughter faded. "You're important because you needed help. And I could help you, so I did. We did."

Bucky's brows pulled down and he squinted at the man standing in front of him. Who just kept gazing back, like what he'd just said wasn't the stupidest, most nonsensical thing Bucky had ever heard.

"What?" Bucky finally asked.

He grinned. "You heard me."

"I heard you, I heard the words, but they didn't make any sense."

The Captain was still grinning. "Welcome to Sciatha, Bucky."

 

***

 

Bucky had heard of Sciatha. He'd be surprised if there was a mercenary around who hadn't. Not because Sciatha was in the merc hiring business, but because they weren't.

They didn't need to be.

Sciatha was an island kingdom with an elite navy, a deadly Royal Guard, and a historical reputation for bloody, vicious combat and crossing any line to get what they wanted. It was how they'd ended up on an island in the first place: something like five, six hundred years ago a coalition of kingdoms had driven them off the mainland. They'd had nowhere to go but an island so haunted by rumours and tales of curses and danger that no one had ever dared inhabit it but herds of clever, stubborn goats.

Such had been Sciatha's reputation that they'd apparently dealt with the hauntings, curses, and danger. The goats, however, had stayed.

Nowadays, their reputation ran more to the finest yarns, threads, and cloth, with cheese in the winter months, all courtesy of their hardy goats; fish and other delicacies of the deep, courtesy of their fishing fleet; and clever constructions of metal and genius, courtesy of their artisans.

But while that ancient bloodthirsty reputation lingered slightly out in the world, Bucky didn't see any sign of it here. And he thought he would have, since Steve—who'd finally managed to get Bucky to call him that instead of Captain—didn't seem to want Bucky to leave. On the contrary, Steve seemed to be going out of his way to make him comfortable enough to stay.

Or so it seemed. Bucky was sure he must be reading things wrong. There was _nothing_ he could offer these people. Nothing he had that they could use, nothing he was that they could need. He was, and had, nothing.

One day when he was hurting, body and soul and heart, he said as much to Steve.

Steve gave him a long thoughtful look. "That's not true, though, is it? You can still fight."

Steve was right, as far as it went. He'd been training with Steve. Steve had given him weapons—a sword, a knife, no shield, since with only one arm he couldn't manage it. It was stupid, Bucky thought, when they still didn't know him, but then again maybe not, given Steve shadowed his every step and Bucky knew Steve could stop him if he got it in his head to hurt someone.

Steve could stop a _mountain_ if it got it in its head to hurt someone.

"Not like I could. And even if I could still fight like that, you still wouldn’t need me. I was a merc, I fought for whoever forked out the most gold. That's what I'm good for and that's not you. That's not this. That's not here. You don't need me."

Steve made a noise of protest.

Bucky ignored him. "Can I go?"

"Bucky, you're not a hireling, you're not a prisoner. You don't need my permission to—" Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair and sighed. "Yeah, sure. Of course you can."

 

***

 

Bucky wasn't the first person who'd been fished out of the ocean and brought to the castle. He wasn't even the first person _Steve_ had fished out of the ocean and brought to the castle.

He _was_ the first person Steve had fished out of the ocean who had no one and nothing and nowhere. And he was the first person Steve had fished out of the ocean who'd made Steve feel this...warmth, this longing. Hells, Bucky was the first person, the _only_ person, Steve had been drawn to in a long damn time and he'd never been drawn this strongly.

But that wasn't why Steve wanted Bucky to stay. He kind of wished he wasn't attracted to Bucky. Kind of wished he didn't feel so strongly drawn to him. Bucky had no one and nothing and nowhere, Steve was trying his damnedest to at least give him the somewhere, and it meant he absolutely could not act on his feelings. He had to keep them tightly locked away, couldn't afford to let even a glimpse of them show. If Bucky thought they were why Steve was trying to keep him—mentally he winced, _poor choice of words, there, Steve_ —Steve was sure he'd run. Steve was sure he wouldn't trust any of it.

Steve wanted Bucky to stay because he believed Bucky would be an asset to Sciatha. Even with only one arm, even with Bucky not back to full condition, he was almost a match for Steve. He knew tricks Steve had never seen, had come so close to disarming him at practice last week that Steve had almost dropped to one knee and proposed on the spot.

He wanted Bucky to stay because the artisans at Stark's could fashion him an arm, and they would, for the challenge of it if nothing else—not that Bucky needed one, but Steve knew the lack weighed on him, dragged at him like sea-sodden clothes, and it would take some work. He could barely get Bucky to accept new chain mail; it would be a long road to get him to accept an entirely new _arm._

But mostly he wanted Bucky to have a place to call home.

There had to be a way.

He worried at it, turning it over and over, and finally enlisted Sam's help. Who looked at him and said, "Offer him the Hound's position."

Steve stared at Sam. "There hasn't been a Hound in a hundred years."

"So? The position's still there. It was never abolished. Talk to Their Majesties about offering it to Bucky. You need a position for him if you want him to stay, it's a vacant position that technically needs a fighter's skills. Chances are if he wants to stay, he'll accept. If he doesn't want to stay, there's nothing you can do to make him."

Steve leaned against the cool stone wall and tipped his head back to stare at the sky. "You're right." Sam usually was. He had a knack for seeing inside people. Literally, sometimes, given he kept people alive when naval ships went into battle. Steve had seen him, swinging between ships on a slip of line that shouldn't hold his weight, soaked to the elbows in blood, saving the lives of people anyone else would have left for dead, standing over his wounded and taking on half a dozen pirates to protect them.

The Hound was a legacy of the Sciatha that used to be, back before they'd been driven off the mainland, back before the king had struck his bargain with the island's owners. Once, the Hound had been the assassin, the killer, the Crown's dog, whistled up to keep the royal hands clean. But it had been almost three hundred years since the Hound had been anything but a sinecure, and a hundred years since they'd even had one.

Now it was just an empty position that could potentially be filled, ready to be reshaped into something new.

"It's tricking him," Steve said.

"A little bit, but he's not going to accept a position in your Royal guard, and it doesn't sound like you know any other way to make him stay."

"No. No I don't."

Sam lifted a hand and let it fall, clearly asking, _Well then?_

"He doesn't even know how skilled he is," Steve said, half to himself, half to Sam. "He's really good, Sam. Almost as good as me." Sam snorted and Steve gave him a crooked smile. "I'll speak to Their Majesties."

 

***

 

When Steve offered him the position, Bucky accepted. He did so with a slightly cynical smile, but he accepted. He was staying. Steve had done it, he'd given Bucky a somewhere.

Much to Steve's surprise, he also accepted the offer of an arm.

Stark was thrilled at the opportunity and it wasn't long before Bucky had a metal limb in place of his missing arm, one that moved and twisted and responded to his commands. The flower that was Sciatha's symbol was etched into the metal at his shoulder and carefully painted, the subtle pinks contrasting with the brilliant silver.

The arm meant he didn't need a shield. Whatever Stark had done to it, it blocked a blow from Steve's sword _almost_ as well as Steve's shield, and what Bucky lost in protection he made up for in maneuverability, twisting around his sword like a cat.

As the weeks went past, Bucky training every day with Steve, running every day with Steve, Steve learned Bucky's body, the way it moved, the way it reacted, almost as well as he knew his own.

It didn't help his feelings any.

At all.

But he'd had practice now at keeping them tucked away. Bucky needed a safe place. He needed to know this somewhere he'd found was _his_ and his alone, that it wasn't part of giving something to Steve.

 

***

 

Bucky liked this part of the castle. It was quiet, peaceful, not a garden but the green bushes that grew all over the island gave it a garden-like feel. He could work on his sword forms and very few people would disturb him.

As a general rule, very few people disturbed him.

It wasn't all that surprising. He was Sciatha's bogeyman, after all.

It had been months since Bucky had accepted Steve's offer. Since he'd become an honourless mercenary who'd do anything, cross any line—lie, steal, torture, murder, because apparently Sciatha's bloody history _wasn't_ all that historical—all for money and a place to belong.  

Not that Steve had told him any of that. Steve had described the Hound as a jack-of-all-trades fighter, a problem solver, someone who could be assigned wherever the Crown needed him, who had freedom and flexibility to deal with situations that might arise outside the norm. Bucky had needed to dig to find out exactly what that meant, to find out exactly what the Hound was for, but once he'd found it, he hadn't been surprised that they'd offered it to him.

He'd always been a mercenary. This was the first time he'd ever been an honourless one. Part of him wondered if, when it came right down to it, he'd go through with whatever they asked of him. Maybe he'd run. He wondered if that would make him more honourable or less, if he fled from a dishonourable job.

Except no one had asked him to do anything.

That wasn't precisely true. It wasn't as if he sat around, doing nothing. Steve kept him busy. He was training, he was running—and that was a torture straight from the twelve hells below, but a necessary one; he could feel it doing him good—he was training with Steve's guard, working with the ones who needed it, and it had quickly become less training with and more _training_. He was doing tasks for Steve, things that Steve used to do that he was now passing to Bucky, duties that took him all over the island and away from the castle for days.

But no one had tasked him with anything bloody. No one had tasked him with anything terrible. No one had asked him to be the Hound.

He didn't understand why they'd given him the job if they'd didn't have jobs for him to do.

Bucky had stripped down to a light undershirt and a pair of breeches, feet bare, eyes closed, as he worked through his sword forms in this peaceful garden-like corner of the castle—slow controlled movement, flowing from one position into the next, sword in his right hand, sharp and real, not a dull practice blade—when he heard the rustle of cloth. 

He opened his eyes to find the pages watching him. Three boys, three girls, all with identical looks of interest, all in dark blue tabards with the Sciathan flower traced in silver on the front. Sciatha, just like every other highborn house Bucky had ever encountered, had pages. He'd never had anything to do with them. He knew some were from here on the island, some were from other kingdoms where Sciatha's noble children had been sent to be pages in trade.

It was diplomacy or something. Bucky didn't really care. All he cared about were the six sets of eyes staring at him.

He lowered his sword. He didn't know how to deal with kids. Kids tended to run away from mercenaries. The only kids he could remember having anything to do with were in the merc camp, when he was a kid himself. They'd mostly kicked the crap out of each other, fighting over food and blankets and anything else they managed to get their hands on. Back then, coming up to an adult like this would have meant a beating if you were lucky. No merc kid would have done it, not for anything.

These were not merc kids. There was nothing in their eyes but interest, avid curiosity. Trust.

He swallowed hard. Something hot whipped through him, taking him by surprise, a fierce determination not to damage that trust. Not to make them afraid of him. He wasn't sure how to do that. He crouched down. "Hey," he said, pitching his voice soft. "What's up?"

One of the girls, with bright green eyes and skin like a copper penny, her dark hair pulled back in practical braids, stepped forward. "Can you show us those?"

The others set up a chorus of clamouring agreement and Bucky suddenly realised that maybe he didn't have to worry about scaring them. It made him grin, made him feel almost giddy. "I don't know," he said, tilting his head.

Immediately, they made sad faces at him, eyes big and bright.

He hid a smile. "See, your teacher would be going at a certain pace and I don't want to interfere with that."

"Steve won't mind!" the first girl said. "He likes it when we learn new things."

Steve. Of course it would be Steve teaching the kids. Who else would you trust with such tiny things?

Bucky made a show of thinking about it. "What's your name?"

"Neta."

"I tell you what, Neta. You get Steve to tell me it's okay, and I'll come to your next training session and show you. Deal?"

The other pages looked to Neta as she thought it over, then she nodded. "Deal," she said decisively, holding out her hand.

Bucky shifted his sword to his metal hand and carefully shook hers with his right, very aware of how fragile she was. When he let go, she grinned at him, cheeky as could be, and scampered off, the others following. Bucky had the distinct impression she'd just gotten exactly what she'd wanted.

A quiet laugh drew his gaze upwards. Steve was leaning on the parapet above him. "Someday she's going to be running her own trade empire."

"Is she?" Bucky asked.

"She's told me. Several times. I don't doubt it for a minute."

It made Bucky smile, because neither did he. He stared up at Steve and his smile slowly faded. "Can you get down here? I need to ask you something."

Steve disappeared without a word and a few minutes later—the castle wasn't the simplest place to get around in—reappeared in the small courtyard. "What's on your mind?"

Now that he had him here, Bucky didn't know how to ask what he wanted to know. He didn't know how to shape the question. He didn't know if he wanted to. If he did, would he have to give it up? Would he have to go? Or would he have to live up to the role he'd taken? There were no good outcomes here, but drifting along in uncertainty wasn't doing him any favours.

"I can't read it," Steve said.

"What?" he asked, startled.

"Your mind."

Bucky huffed a laugh. "Good thing."

"That, bad, huh?"

"Not bad, I'm just confused."

"Again?"

Bucky smiled briefly, remembering that first day. "You didn't do a great job of unconfusing me then, you know."

"Sorry about that." Steve didn't really sound sorry. "Can I do better this time?"

"I hope so." He took a small, steadying breath, like he was about to loose an arrow from a bow. "When do I do my job?"

"You've been doing it."

"No, I've been doing your job, and whatever tasks you've seen fit to give me, I haven't been doing my job, the job you needed a merc to do," he took a deep breath, "because no one else would sell their honour like that. Except no one's asked me to do anything yet and I'd like to know when it's going to happen."

Steve went pale. "Sell your honour?"

Bucky made an impatient gesture and said, "That's not important," or he tried to, except Steve caught his hand.

It was the first time Steve had touched him outside of sparring.

It was the first time _anyone_ had touched him outside of a fight or a quick fuck in longer than Bucky could remember. Steve had caught his hand and his strong fingers wrapped around Bucky's and held on.

"I would never ask you to sell your honour. Bucky, I don't—" He stopped and took a breath, visibly striving for control. "Can you explain what you mean? Please," he added.

He didn't let go and Bucky…let him keep hold of his hand. Steve looked so distressed, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. It had nothing to do with the feel of Steve's skin against his, the feel of being held, even if it was only his hand.

"What else would you call it? You offered me a position as Sciatha's designated murderer, torturer, whatever else the kingdom needs. You didn't tell me that's what it was, I had to find it out for myself, but I'm trading my honour for money and a place to live. It's fine, I made my choice, I'd just like to know when the bill's going to start coming due."

Steve bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Fuck." It was a whisper Bucky had to strain to hear. "Fuck. No," he said, louder. "No, Bucky, that's not." He lifted his head, opened his eyes, squeezed Bucky's hand. "That's not what it was supposed to be."

Bucky stared at him.

"There hasn't been a Hound for years. Not for a hundred years. Sciatha doesn't do that anymore.  We're not that kingdom anymore. You were never going to be asked to do what it used to be, _never_."

Steve's fingers were tight around Bucky's hand, his voice shaking with intensity, and his eyes held Bucky's trapped.

"Then why did you offer it to _me_?" he asked, feeling like the words were coming from very far away.

"Because I wanted you to stay, I wanted you to have _somewhere_ , but I knew you wouldn't stay unless you had _something_ , and it was the only thing I could think of. It was a space you could fit yourself into, and Bucky, you fit here. I don't know how I got by without you, you make such a difference. You're so good with the young recruits, with the ones who are shy or scared or've had a blow to their confidence. You're _good_ with them, just like you were good with those pages."

Bucky stood stock still, blinking, sword in his metal hand, Steve's hand in the other, and the ability to form words abandoned him.

"Bucky?"

He shook his head, because he didn't _understand._ It didn't make _sense_ , it had made sense before, but now it didn't, he didn't understand anything, and it must have shown on his face, because Steve said, "Come here," and dragged him into a hug.

Instinct fought a brief bloody skirmish with want and something that felt like trust, the need to escape before he was hurt battling with the feel of Steve's arms around him, holding him tight. Sudden certainty lodged in his gut, telling him Steve wouldn't hurt him. Trust and want claimed victory and Bucky pressed closer, wrapping his right arm around Steve's waist and holding on tight while he pressed his face into Steve's shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, Steve was wearing leather, and it was hard and scratchy, but he didn't care.

"You belong here," Steve said in his ear and Bucky shivered, Steve's words scraping across nerves frayed raw. "Bucky?"

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." He sagged, surrendering. He didn't understand, he wasn't sure he believed, but Steve did, Steve believed, and maybe that was enough. "I belong here."


	3. Now

"Steve, are you going to tell me what in the deep and gloomy depths has you so upset about some purple flowers?" Bucky had broken off a stalk of his own and was rolling it between his metal fingers as they hurried through the halls of the castle.

"You're going to find out soon enough."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Great, Steve. That's great. Thanks."

Normally, Steve would have made some smart-ass comment back at him. Now, he simply flashed Bucky an apologetic smile over his shoulder and kept going.

It wasn't just Steve. Everywhere he looked, people looked worried. And it wasn't just one sort of person. Here were a few guards, there a maid, they passed the Chatelaine and her face was utterly blank, which for someone as expressive as she was Bucky knew was a bad sign.

They made their way to the royal study, and the two guards on duty knocked and announced them, and they were ushered in. The Queens were both present, as casual as Bucky ever saw them, slender matching circlets of gold on their heads, both dressed in formal day wear but nothing ornate.

Bucky bowed, low and sweeping, putting a little flourish in it, because he knew it always amused Queen Romanov. Steve's bow was far more perfunctory, workmanlike, and as if they could read his bow and know something was wrong both Queens sat straighter.

"Captain Rogers?" Queen Carter asked.

Queen Romanov was studying Bucky, like she could glean truth from him. He held up the stalk of thyme he'd picked and watched her eyes go dark. Her gaze shifted to Steve and she said, "The wild thyme's blooming."

"Yes," Steve replied.

"I never thought it would happen in our lifetime," Queen Carter said. She held out her hand and Queen Romanov took it, holding it gently.

"It has to be me." Steve's voice was hard, brooking no argument, sharp like a sword's edge.

It was _not_ how Steve spoke to the Queens, but they didn't so much as blink. A chill crept up Bucky's spine.

"We can call for volunteers," Queen Carter said.

"Or hold a lottery," Queen Romanov suggested, almost carelessly, but her eyes were as sharp, as hard, as Steve's voice had been.

"No. Send someone unwilling? Unskilled? And you have a volunteer. You have me, right here, right now. This is the whole reason I exist: to protect our kingdom. To protect your kingdom."

"No one has ever come back. In all our history, no one ever came back."

"Then I can be the first." Steve smiled when he said it, his tone light, but Bucky knew him and he knew when Steve was faking.

Bucky thrust himself forward, the thyme crushed in his closed fist. "I'll go."

Three sets of eyes pinned him in place.

"You don't even know what we're talking about," Steve said.

"I don't care," Bucky replied harshly. "I know enough. You're talking about somewhere you might not come back from. You're talking about something you don't have a choice about, something you can't fight."

Steve looked a question at him.

"Because otherwise you _would_ fight. Steve, you always fight and if you're not, it means there's some reason why you can't."

He switched his gaze to Queen Romanov, looking her right in the eye. They were equal, his Queens, but she was the harder of the two. If he could convince her… "Let me go. You need Steve. You can't lose Steve. He's," his throat closed, sudden tightness wrenching his words away, but he swallowed, forced it down, "important. You can't lose him."

"But we can lose you?" she asked with surprising delicacy.

Behind him, he heard Steve stir, felt him move closer.

"Yes. You can. I'm your Hound, that's my job, even if you never meant for me to do it. I'm supposed to be expendable." He opened his arms wide. "Here I am."

Silence fell. He refused break it. Finally, Queen Carter said, "Bucky." She stopped and shook her head. "I honestly don't know how to answer that except to say: you are not expendable."

He opened his mouth, ready to contradict her, ready to argue with his _Queen_ , except Steve grabbed hold of the back of his jerkin, and it was enough to make him shut up.

"In any event, it doesn't matter. You can't. Your loyalty is commendable, but you're not qualified. You must be born on the island and you were not. Steve, would you please explain what's happening? Whether you go or not—"

"I will be."

Steve was interrupting the Queen and all she did was narrow her eyes. The whole world had turned upside down.

"—Bucky _does_ needs to know."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Steve bowed and Bucky, taking his cue from Steve, followed suit, then Steve just about dragged him out of their study.

As soon as they reached an empty room, Steve hauled him inside.

"What in the deepest depths were you thinking?" Steve demanded.

"What in the depths was I thinking? What in the fourteen hells were _you_ thinking? Offering to go off on some," here Bucky's brain gave up, " _thing_ you might not come back from? Steve. What is going _on_?"

Steve gave a short, explosive sigh and held out the much-battered and wilted stalk of wild thyme. "This. This is going on."

"That's a flower, not an answer."

"It's both." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "What do you know about the fae?"

"Are you changing the subject or explaining?"

"I'm explaining. I'm explaining everything. It's not something anyone outside Sciatha knows. It's about how we got here, it's about how Sciatha was allowed to settle on the island. It's about the bargain the king made so we could."

Bucky went cold. What he knew about the fae was the same as anyone else: stay away from them, don't mess with them, if you had to go near somewhere known to belong to them carry cold iron, put a horseshoe nail in your shoe; if you couldn’t avoid them, you were probably dead or worse, you'd just wish you were.

"Tell me."

"You know the history. The rulers of Sciatha were a bloody bunch, murderers the lot of them, and the rest of the mainland kingdoms banded together to drive them off. The king at the time ended up here. On this island. This huge, lush, fertile island, with its fields and forests and fresh water, and nothing living on it but the goats."

Haunted by rumours of curses and dangers. _Oh no…_

"There was a reason for that. It was fae land. It still is fae land."

"What the _fuck_ , Steve? It _is_ fae land? We're walking around on fae land?"

"Yeah. That's where the bargain comes in. The records from that time, they're shit, Buck. What we know is the fae were bored. Their lands connect to human lands through a gate in the high hills, and I guess humans are more entertaining than goats. They made a deal. What we know is whenever a member of fae royalty is born, a human born on the island is called to go through the gate and perform a service. When the fae are satisfied, if the fae are satisfied, the human will be allowed to return and the bargain will be done, the island forever Sciatha's."

"But the Queen said no one's ever come back."

"No."

"That king was really fucking stupid."

"Yes."

"You don't make deals with the fae. You don't."

"I know."

"You've never thought of just…leaving?"

"Me personally? Or the whole kingdom?"

"Both. Either."

"No. And no. This is my home, our home. And if this is what it costs to keep it, it's a price I'll pay."

It was the most Steve thing he'd ever heard. In the three years since he'd washed up on the beach, he'd never heard anything more perfectly Steve.

It was a price Bucky would pay for him, if only he could. "I knew you'd say that."

Steve just smiled.

"I hate you sometimes, you know?"

"I know, Buck."

"All right, what do we need to do?"

"Wait. They'll send a message letting us know when."

"I want you to know I hate this, too."

"I know."

"You're going to come back?"

"I'm going to come back."

 

***

 

The entire castle was filled with the scent of wild thyme. The pink and purple flowers couldn't be avoided, and not just within the castle. The bushes grew all around the kingdom, all the way to the very furthest rocky outcrops of the island, and common folk from far and wide were making their way to the castle to confirm that the stories they'd heard from their grannies were true.

The Queens sent out courier boats and heralds on horseback, to carry the truth of what was happening before wild stories could take over.

It was a good idea, Steve thought. Already he'd heard a dozen different rumours, including the far-fetched notion that the fae were coming to marry all their ugly sons and daughters, but he'd heard that one at the pub, spoken in very drunk, very wistful tones, and Steve was certain it was confined to that specific old man.

It wasn't just the flowers that couldn’t be avoided. Bucky was his constant shadow, like he was afraid if he didn't stay by Steve's side, Steve under his watchful eye, that Steve would disappear.

Steve didn't mind. He more than didn't mind. Truth was, he didn't know how much time he had; if he got to spend every last moment of it with the man he'd been in love with for three years, he wasn't going to complain.

Why he'd never said anything, he wasn't sure. At first, it'd been to make certain Bucky knew he was wanted, he was welcome, for his own sake, and then he'd just been holding it hidden for so long it was simpler to keep doing it. Now that it was too late he was discovering the luxury of regret.

A distant buzzing hum pulled Steve's thoughts away from the man standing next to him and he tilted his head, trying to pin down where it was coming from. Bucky shaded his eyes with his metal hand, staring up into the sky, then grabbed Steve's arm, dragging him around, and pointed. "There!"

A dark undulating cloud was getting closer, the buzzing hum was growing louder, and Steve, with a horrified suspicion that he knew what it was, bolted for the closest tower, Bucky at his heels. They took the stone stairs two at a time and burst out on top of the tower in time for the swarm of bees to descend on them.

Steve braced himself, but they weren't stung. He hadn't thought they would be.

It was the wrong time of year for bees and he doubted there were enough bees in the entire kingdom to make a swarm this huge. This had to be the messenger.

The buzzing hum grew deeper, slower, became words that echoed in his ears, reverberated through his chest, pounded like his heartbeat, but Bucky was beside him, they were together in a swirling typhoon of sound and motion that said, "Tomorrow," and, "Moonrise."

Pulling his shirt up to cover his mouth so he wouldn't inhale any bees, Steve yelled, "Tomorrow at moonrise?"

They answered with an approving hum so loud his boots vibrated against the wood of the tower roof.

"We'll be there!"

The bees swirled faster, faster and faster and faster still, and he squeezed his eyes shut as Bucky pressed into his side, and it was too loud, his ears were going to explode, his skin was going to vibrate off…

…and then there was silence.

He cautiously opened his eyes.

The bees were gone. The sky was clear. Faces stared up at them from the ground below, mouths hanging open in shock.

Bucky straightened and turned, grasping Steve's shoulders. "Are you okay?" It sounded tinny and distant.

Steve nodded. It felt like a lie, but at least it was a a lie that didn't involve words. Of course, he could tell by the look Bucky gave him that he knew Steve was lying, which made the whole thing pointless. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Bucky said. For a moment, Bucky swayed forward, lifted his hand, and everything in Steve forgot anything else existed, but it passed. Bucky lowered his hand. "We'd better tell Their Majesties."

Steve nodded again. "I'm grateful the bees didn't feel the need to come into the throne room."

Bucky cracked a smile that turned into a choked laugh as he turned to head down the stairs, and Steve followed him.

Tomorrow.

 

***

 

The moon wasn't quite full, wasn't quite the huge, perfect circle it could be, but it was close, and it was more than bright enough to see by.

Bucky made his way down to the beach that ran down the length of the coast next to the castle. After a minute, he sat down on a driftwood log, one of many scattered across the rocky sand, and unlaced his boots. He set them aside and rolled up his pants, then walked down to stand in the surf, the gentle waves rolling around his ankles.

He didn't know the exact spot, but this was where Steve had found him. If there was any justice in the world, him washing up on this beach should count as being born on the island. Steve had found him and pulled him out of the water and given him home and purpose and place and helped him become someone the Bucky he'd been would barely recognise.

If that wasn't being born… Bucky kicked at the water and got wet trousers for his troubles. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Even if the fae would accept his argument—and they might; the tales all said the fae prized cleverness—his arm would keep him from going through the gate. It was too much metal, and even if he cut it off, he'd had it too long. The metal was part of him, flowing through his body.

He could never go to fae lands. He was possibly the one person in all the world who was completely safe from the fae and the one person in all the world who didn't want to be.

Tomorrow at moonrise Steve would go through the gate and perform a service to satisfy the fae. And if the fae weren't satisfied, he'd never return. Bucky would never see him again. The thought felt like losing his arm all over again. The agony, the numbness. The slow, dawning realisation that it was gone, forever gone, that something which had been so much an integral part of his life that he'd never thought about it would never again be there.

That was Steve.

He was starting to figure out that Steve was more to him than he'd ever thought. That maybe at some point he should have stepped back and taken a good long look at how Steve fit into his life. Doing it now was good, better late than never, he guessed, but figuring it out right when he was about to lose hi—

"No." Bucky tipped his head back and spoke to the moon, he spoke to the sea, he made his vow to those two ancient beings who had existed long before him and who would exist long after. "No." Steve had said he would come back. Bucky would not believe in anything else. He would not, in heart or soul or mind, accept that anything else was possible.

And he would not say one word to Steve about discovering he was in love with him. Steve would need everything he had to come back. Bucky wouldn’t distract him. Whether his love was returned or not—and Bucky would survive if it wasn't, but by the ocean's dark cold depths he hoped it was—knowing was a distraction Steve didn't need.

So he'd stay silent and _believe_. "He will come back."

"Yeah, I will."

Bucky startled so badly, arms flailing, he would have gone over into the ocean if Steve hadn't snagged him around the waist and held him up. He caught his balance, took a moment to lean into Steve, to feel the warmth of him, then punched him in the arm. "You ass. What the hells was that? Don't sneak up on me."

"I shouldn't have been able to sneak up on you," Steve pointed out, and he was right, so Bucky folded his arms and didn't say anything. Steve grinned.

"What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the farewell thing?" It wasn't quite a party and it wasn't quite a dirge. No one had been able to pin down what it should be, so mostly it had been sad and awkward. Bucky had snuck out as soon as he'd been able to get away with it.

"Things wound down. No one really knew what to do. I think there's still a few people listening to the bard, but I escaped. It was," Steve made a helpless gesture, "I didn't like it. I just want to get it over with, not make a meal out of it."

Bucky nodded, because Steve was the same about everything. No matter what it was, he didn't want a fuss. He just wanted to get the job done. Bucky sympathised; half the time he ended up standing in for Steve at official functions, because of how much Steve hated them.

"Sam saw you head out this way, and I wanted to talk to you about something, so I followed you."

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"About being Captain of the Royal Guard."

It didn't quite register at first, Bucky waiting for the words to sink in, but when they did, he splashed backwards through the water, away from Steve. "No."

"Bucky…"

"No, Steve. No. It's not happening."

"Someone has to do it, and you've practically been my second in command since you got here. There's no one more qualified, no one my people trust more than you, no one Their Majesties trust more than you, no—"

"Stop!" Bucky yelled. "Just stop."

Steve fell silent, but there was a mulish expression on his face Bucky didn't like. Bucky didn't care; he'd learned stubbornness from Steve himself and he could easily match him. "Sciatha has a Captain of the Royal Guard. It's you."

"And I'll be gone."

Bucky looked out over the ocean, carefully considering, then asked, "Steve, have you ever lied to me?"

"What?"

He turned to face him. "Have you ever lied to me?"

"No, Bucky."

"You told me you were going to come back."

Steve opened his mouth, took a breath, shut it, and narrowed his eyes.

"So if you've never lied to me," and Bucky knew he hadn't, Bucky trusted he hadn't, but hearing Steve _say it_ did strange things to his heart, "and you told me you were coming back, then we don't need a new Captain of the Royal Guard. Do we?"

And there was nothing Steve could say but, "No."

"I'll do the job for you while you're gone—because someone has to keep your people in line," he added with a tiny smile, "but I won't be the Captain. I won't be you. I won't step into your role. I'll keep it ready for you, waiting for you to come back, but that's all."

"I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"I'll hold it for you for however long it takes."

The moon was high overhead, bathing them in silver light, the ocean swirled around their ankles, and Steve moved closer, so only a handsbreadth was separating them. "You truly believe I'll come back."

"I do." Bucky set the tips of his metal fingers against Steve's chest. "You believed in me. I'm never going to do any less for you." 

Steve's eyes were deep, intent, and nothing in this world could have made Bucky look away as Steve curled his fingers around the back of Bucky's neck and rested his forehead against Bucky's. "Thank you." It was barely a whisper.

Bucky flattened his hand, so his palm was pressed over Steve's heart. "And you are the most stubborn man, no, most stubborn _person_ that's ever existed."

Steve laughed quietly. "You haven't met everyone who's ever existed."

"Doesn't matter. I know."

It pulled another quiet laugh out of Steve and they stood together in the moonlight, breathing quietly, both pretending tomorrow wasn't going to come.

 

***

 

The gate to the fae lands was up in the high hills, marked by two willowy bushes, wild thyme grown huge, whose graceful branches bloomed with oversized pink flowers.

The same pink flowers that were the symbol of Sciatha.

The same pink flower that was etched and painted on Bucky's metal arm.

He fought the urge to try and scratch it off.

He dismounted and passed his horse's reins to Neta. She was taller now, her hair shorter, but her eyes were the same vibrant green. When she took the reins she gave Bucky's hand a small squeeze, gave him a quick, sympathetic smile, and he offered her one in return.

He wasn't the only one who was going to miss Steve.

The sun was low in the sky, the full moon a pale disk rising, as the party approached the gate on foot. Their Majesties were not here. Trying to convince them that bringing the two reigning monarchs to the very edges of fae lands was a Bad Idea was the closest Bucky had ever seen to an actual fight between Steve and the Queens. He'd leapt in past his comfort zone once Steve had started to look like he might explode, had managed to get things settled down, but it had been close.

Eventually, they'd listened to reason, but before they'd ridden out Queen Carter had embraced Steve like a son and Queen Romanov had kissed his cheek. Steve had bowed low, going to one knee, his hand brushing the ground, before rising and taking his leave.

And now they were here.

Bucky stood on Steve's left. Sam stood on his right. Various guards and castle personnel were arrayed behind them and they waited. The moon rose higher as the sun sank lower, its fading rays striking the ground between the bushes, and the air shimmered.

A man appeared.

He was dressed in silks and leather, all dyed in various shades of purple. At least, Bucky was assuming the leather was dyed. For all he knew there was some beast in the fae lands whose skin was naturally that shade. He had a beautiful longbow over one shoulder, and Bucky wasn't sure even with his metal arm that he could have managed the draw on something that size. An ivory quiver was strapped across his back, the ivory arrows sticking out of it fletched in feathers from birds so bright and colourful they'd put a peacock to shame.

He wasn't a man, though, even if he looked male, because his ears were delicately curved to a sharp point and he didn't have any earlobes. His bright green eyes were shaped more like a cat's than anything Bucky was used to seeing in a human face, right down to the slit pupils, and his look of curiosity fit right in.

No, he wasn't a man. He was one of the fae.

"Who's coming through the gate?" he asked, and he sounded…normal.

Steve stepped forward. The fae held up a hand. "No."

Steve scowled. "What do you mean _no_? I was born on the island. I meet the rules to perform your little service."

"I mean no, you can't come through wearing all that metal." He waved at Steve's sword, his shield, not sounding annoyed or angry at being spoken to less than respectfully. If anything, he sounded amused. "You need to leave it behind."

They hadn't thought of that. Steve was wearing leather only, no chainmail, but arming himself before riding out was as automatic as breathing, just like it was for Bucky.

After a moment, Steve nodded. He slipped off his shield and set it on the grass, then unbuckled his sword. He glanced at Sam, then held it out to Bucky.

"I'll look after it for you," Bucky said, reaching to take it, but Steve pulled it back.

"No, that's not." He took a deep breath. "That's not what I mean." Steve flipped the sword, so it was lying across his hands and held it out like an offering. "I'm giving it to you. Not to keep, not forever, because we both know I'm coming back, but to use while I'm gone."

He looked up sharply, meeting Steve's eyes. There was something there, something huge and warm, something overwhelming, and his heart beat faster. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Without looking away, Bucky silently unbuckled his own sword and let it fall to the grass. Poor reward for years of faithful service, but he was sure it would forgive him. Steve stepped forward and buckled his own sword in its place, his hands strong and sure as they went around his waist, his knuckles brushing Bucky's side and he couldn’t _breathe._ Steve was giving him his sword. Steve was fastening it on him with his own two hands, his breath ghosting over Bucky's neck, and his skin was rising up in goosebumps.

"There," Steve breathed. He stepped back, eyes traveling over Bucky. "You look good in my sword."

The best Bucky could do was nod and say, "It feels good."

They exchanged shaky smiles and then Bucky pulled him in and hugged him fiercely. When he could finally make himself let go, and Steve seemed just as reluctant, Steve hugged Sam, squeezing him tightly, before shedding a few more bits and pieces of metal. The fae pointed at Steve's boots, Steve took them off, and then Steve was striding across the grass to the space between the flower-laden bushes.

He didn't look back.

The last thing Bucky saw of him was the long strong lines of his back shimmering out of existence in a wave of blue.

 

***

 

Steve followed the fae through the gate, there was a moment of stomach churning disorientation, when his body didn't know which way was up, the whole world gone topsy turvy, and then it settled.

A grass plain stretched out before him. In the distance, horses grazed and they were like no horses Steve had ever seen, nothing like Steve would have expected of fae horses. If asked, he would have guessed at tall, slender, long-limbed beasts, graceful, elegant, with flowing manes and tail.

The animals he could see were heavy, chunky, with thick necks, wide legs, and broad barrels, but even from here he could see they moved with balance and grace. Their manes brushed their shoulders, their tails brushed the grass, and they seemed to come in every colour he'd ever heard of.

"I'm Clinton."

Steve looked at the fae.

"It's my name?"

Steve didn't say anything.

"I'm not sure if I've got this wrong, but this is usually where you'd tell me yours."

"I'm not giving you my name."

"Are you rude, is it embarrassing, or is there some other reason?"

"Never give your name to the fae," Steve parroted the traditional wisdom, "if they have your name, they can have you."

Clinton blinked once, cat's eyes narrowing to slits, then slowly grinned. "Is that _have you_ in a sexual way, or…"

"What?" Steve yelped. "No!" Then he stopped. "I don't think so, anyway." Because no one had ever specified, and he'd always assumed it meant kidnap. But the words did have another meaning. Clinton was still grinning at him, looking deeply amused. "It's not true, is it?"

"Not in the least. And you would have known that if you'd given it some thought."

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you here?"

"To perform a service that satisfies your people."

Clinton waved it off. "No, why are you here. Why are you really here?"

It only took a moment's thought to figure out what Clinton was talking about. "Because a king of Sciatha made a bargain with the fae."

"Yeah. And what part of the fae knowing your name sounds like making a bargain?"

"You could be lying to find out my name," Steve pointed out.

"And you could have died going through the gate and this could be one of your human heavens," Clinton countered, sounding somewhere between exasperated and tired. "You're going to have a lousy time here with that that attitude."

Steve scowled again, but he bowed his head while he thought it over. "Steve," he finally said.

Clinton smiled, a tiny thing, genuine. "Welcome, Steve."

"Thanks," he replied sarcastically, and was rewarded with Clinton's smile growing wider. "Are you going to tell me what service I have to perform?" He looked around, seeing nothing but the gate and grass and horses. "Does it involve grass?"

"That's something you have to talk to the Queen about. I'm just here to collect you. Being in the human world doesn't bother me the way it does some of the others."

"And why's that?"

"Because I'm a little bit human." Clinton put two fingers in his mouth and whistled, long and sharp. All over the field, horse heads rose, and horses began ambling over. "You can ride, right?"

"Yeah." He was used to tack, but he'd be able to manage. He'd have to.

"Good."

It wasn't long before they were cantering across the fields, Steve's very broad horse—and his thighs were going to feel that when he got off—patiently ignoring him as it followed Clinton's horse.

After a few minutes, Steve shifted his gaze to keep his eyes firmly on his horse's withers, because the world was flickering around them. The path under their feet stayed solid, but they moved through forest and field and what looked like a city made from spun sugar and blown glass, and each new place flickered in and out of existence.

They finally slowed to a walk outside a palace that stretched high into sunrise-stained clouds scudding through a pale blue sky. The palace shimmered like sea glass, sharp edges rounded and smooth, the walls frosted like they'd been tumbled by the ocean for countless years before being snatched up and turned into this confection of a building.

Steve was almost afraid to go in. Not because of what might be lurking inside, but because he couldn’t quite believe anything which looked like that could possibly be stable.

But that was where they were going. Clinton slid off his horse and Steve followed, the horses wandering off, and kept following him into the palace, through hallways that gleamed blue and green and purple, all with that same frosted shimmer of glass from the sea.

They finally washed up in a monumentally huge room, one that was open to the sky, and Steve knew nothing about palace design or construction but he felt like this room couldn’t possibly exist inside the hallways and walls they'd walked through to get here.

But these were fae lands. The rules were different.

There were two fae reclining on couches in the middle of the room, bright sunlight painting them in shades of warmth. They were far more fae than Clinton. Seeing them together, Steve could spot the differences. Sharper faces on these two, chins and ears more pointed, slightly sharpened teeth that he got a view of when they both looked up from the baby they were cooing over and smiled.

They weren't friendly smiles, but they weren't unfriendly. It was more like Steve was a slightly irritating obligation they had to deal with, and they acknowledged that it wasn't Steve's fault, but that didn't make them any happier about it.

They weren't friendly smiles, but they were complex.

Clinton pressed his fist over his heart and inclined his head, before turning to Steve. "This is Queen Wanda, her daughter and heir as yet unnamed, and her brother, Prince Pietro." He turned back. "This is the human. He's funny about his name, so I'll leave it to him whether he wants to give it."

Two sets of cat-slit eyes, one blue, one green, pinned him in place.

"Steve. My name is Steve." He copied Clinton, pressing his hand to his heart, and then bowed low—they weren't his Queens, but they were royalty, and he would give them the respect they were due—then drew himself up to his full height. "The wild thyme bloomed, signalling the birth of a royal fae. And in keeping with the bargain made by the first king of Sciatha to set foot on this island, I have come to perform a service for you. And as the bargain made said that until you were satisfied I could not leave your lands, I will do my very best to perform your service and hold to Sciatha's end of the bargain. I ask only that you do the same."

Clinton's eyebrows had been slowly rising through Steve's speech. When he was done, he turned to look at the Queen. She exchanged a glance with the Prince.

"Very well," the Queen said. "You are right, the bargain says you cannot leave these lands until we have been satisfied. I will give you a service to perform." She conferred briefly with the Prince, then nodded. When she turned back to Steve, her face was blank. "You must find a dragon."  

Steve's heart sank. Dragons didn't exist. How could he find something that didn't exist? Except… These were fae lands. Dragons _could_ exist here. Find a dragon, okay. He had no weapons. He had no armour. But he had to find a dragon. _Find._ "Do I have to bring it back or do I just have to find it?"

"You have to bring it back," the Prince said. "Not much point if you just find it, is there?"

"Can I have weapons?"

"No."

"Can you tell me where to start looking?"

"We can."

Silence stretched. Steve's jaw clenched. "Where should I start looking?"

The Queen lifted her arm and pointed at a door. "Through there."

Steve's brow furrowed. But these were fae lands, as he kept reminding himself. This room couldn't possibly exist at the end of the halls he'd walked to get here. Anything could be on the other side of that door. "Can I at least have a knife?"

"We will give you no weapons while you're performing your service in our lands." It was said with a royal finality Steve recognised. He glanced at Clinton, who gave him a look of sympathy, but he knew there was no help there.

Steve approached the room like he was approaching the dragon he'd been tasked to find: cautiously, with no idea what was waiting for him, and eased the door open to pitch blackness. He strained his ears, trying to hear a clue as to what might be waiting.

With the brief wish that he could see Bucky one more time, he stepped through and pulled the door shut behind him.

Light flared, blinding after the darkness, and he crouched, ducking for cover, groping along the ground for anything he could use as a weapon. His hand hit something and he snatched it up. A mournful squeak made him freeze and open his eyes.

He was holding a stuffed yellow duck. He tentatively squeezed it and again it let out a long, mournful squeak. "What in the ancient depths…?"

He straightened and took a good look around the room. There was an ornate cradle, surrounded by what appeared to be drapes of cloth suspended from nothing, and piles of toys.

Including a stuffed duck. Which he was now holding. He squeezed it once more, listened to the squeak, then carefully set it down on the floor, where it seemed to watch him suspiciously.

"Find a dragon. They have got to be kidding me."

It made no sense, but then maybe sense was something he needed to let go of.

An hour later the nursery was spotlessly organised and Steve was holding a foot-long stuffed green dragon with big blue eyes and rainbow wings.

He stared at it.

It stared back.

"You can't possibly be what she meant."

The dragon didn't offer an opinion, for which Steve was grateful, so he opened the door and stepped out into the cavernous room. Clinton was sitting cross-legged in front of what was now a single gigantic couch, the baby cradled in his lap, his bow and quiver set safely out of the way. Queen Wanda and Prince Pietro were studying a map, spread out on a table that hadn't been there when he'd left, the Queen marking it in places with an elaborate feathered quill pen.

They looked up as Steve shut the door behind him.

"I have found a dragon," he proclaimed, brandishing the brightly coloured stuffed toy.

The Queen smiled widely. "Very good. We've been looking for it for days." She indicated the baby and Steve, after a moment's hesitation, walked across the room and handed it to Clinton, who started wiggling it around, making the wings flap. The baby waved her hands in the air, gurgling happily, sounding like any baby Steve had ever heard.

"Does this mean I can go?"

"No," the Prince said sadly. "You can't."

"I performed your service. You're satisfied, right? That means it's over."

"It's not over," the Queen said. "The service and the satisfaction are not linked. The test was never for you."

Steve stared for a long time, gaze jumping between Queen Wanda, Prince Pietro, and Clinton. Fae faces were hard to read, but he could see what, on a human, might be apology, might be a kind of sadness.

Heart in his sock-clad feet, he finally asked, "What?"

 

***

 

When they returned to the castle—and Bucky had resolutely not looked back when he'd mounted his horse and ridden away from the spot where Steve had disappeared—Bucky carefully wrapped his sword and stored it away.

He had Steve's. He wouldn’t need his own until Steve returned to reclaim his.

Bucky could still feel Steve buckling his sword around his waist, could feel the warmth of Steve's body, the brush of his breath, and he held the memory for long minutes, eyes closed, then wrapped it up like he had his sword and stored it away, too.

Like his sword, it could wait until Steve's return.

What to do with Steve's shield was more complicated. Bucky didn't use a shield, he didn't need one, but he wasn't going to put it in storage. Steve was coming back. Steve's shield was as much a part of him as his sword, Steve the only man Bucky had ever known in whose hands a shield could be as deadly as a sword or protection as strong as the castle walls.

 _Kind of like Steve._ Bucky ran his fingers over the shield. It was funny, he could imagine Steve without his sword, without his knives, but he couldn't imagine him without his shield. Steve _needed_ his shield.

For now, Bucky leaned it against the wall in his tiny room, but he wasn't sure it would stay there. He touched it with his metal fingers, dragging a little to hear the hum of metal against metal, then straightened.

There was work to do. Steve had gone to meet the bargain that ancient king of Sciatha had made—that _stupid_ ancient king of Sciatha, how, _how_ could anyone be so dumb?—and he'd be back, but between now and then Bucky had to make sure everything kept running smoothly.

The Queens were the soul of the castle, but Steve was its beating heart, even if he didn't know it. While he was away, Bucky would just have to beat for him.

 

***

 

Steve sat in the deep green grass and stared at the faint blue shimmer that marked the spot where he'd walked into fae lands. An owl perched on the stone gate, seemingly unbothered by the daylight. The chunky horses grazed around him. Birds flew overhead; he couldn’t see them, he wasn't looking, but he could hear their wings.

He wasn't in his socks anymore. Clinton had given him some shoes. He was grateful.

He wasn't as grateful for what Queen Wanda had given him.

Or, truthfully, he supposed he _was_. He'd never been fond of lying to himself and he hated it when other people lied to him, especially when they thought they were sparing him from something.

Queen Wanda hadn't lied to him. She'd told him the truth. Or, maybe she hadn't? He had no way of knowing. She could be lying and letting him believe it was the truth, but what she'd said rang true and it fit with every tale of the fae he'd every heard.

Plus there was the small fact that if what everyone in Sciatha believed had been true—perform a service that satisfies the fae and the bargain is met—he'd be home by now. Yet here he was, sitting in the green grass wearing fae shoes, staring at a blue shimmer in the air.

"The bargain Sciatha's king struck was that we must be satisfied," the Queen had told him. "But not with the human who comes to our lands."

"The part about performing a service was put in to have a reason to get you here," the Prince had added.

"What the bargain requires is that we're satisfied with...faith. The faith of those left behind. It's their faith that's being tested. Their faith that the one who's been sent will return."

"But if they don't know that's the bargain…" Steve had started to say, then stopped.

"Yeah," Clinton had said into the silence, dangling his fingers in front of the baby's face. "If they know all they have to do is have faith it's not really faith, is it?" He'd looked up at Steve, expression shrewd. "It's just waiting."

Steve wondered now as he stared at the blue shimmer if somewhere in the ancient books of the castle the original bargain was written down. Or if that king had never bothered. If he'd just struck his bargain and not given a damn about everyone who was to come. Given he'd been bloodthirsty enough to get his entire kingdom driven off the mainland, Steve was willing to bet it was the latter.

Why _would_ he have cared if a commoner was sacrificed every generation or so? Fury filled him and he punched the grass, making the nearest horses startle, making them toss up their heads and eye him suspiciously.

One of the mares, bigger than the rest, stamped a hoof and snorted, long and loud, giving him a deeply offended look.

He sighed. "Sorry."

She snorted again, softer, and they gradually went back to grazing.

Steve was trapped in fae lands and nothing he could do could affect what was going to happen. There was nothing he could do except wait for who knew how long and hope, and there wasn't a lot of hope to have. He understood why no one had ever come back. Asking anyone to have perfect faith, with not a moment of doubt, was asking too much. It wasn't fair. Everyone doubted, everyone had moments where they weren't strong, where faith faltered, and a moment was all it would take.

But that was the bargain the king had struck. The human sent to perform a service in fae lands could only return if someone, anyone, held perfect faith in their return. If they did, the bargain would be satisfied, the island would pass to the kingdom of Sciatha, and the gate to fae lands would be permanently sealed.

Steve didn't know, wasn't allowed to know, how long the impossible perfect faith had to last. That lack of knowledge was particularly vicious. Hells, the whole thing was particularly vicious, a perfectly impossible fae bargain, straight out of the tales. And he was stuck in it. Maybe forever.

"The other humans, they made lives here," Clinton had told him afterwards, leading Steve to a door in the sea-glass palace. He'd opened it to reveal the grassy field that held the gate, even though they'd ridden a long way to reach the palace from the field in the first place. "Found loves, had children." He'd pointed at himself. "I'm not a direct descendant, but like I said, I'm a little bit human."

"Why are we here?" Steve had asked, waving at the field. He hadn't asked _how_.

"This is the closest I can get you to home." Clinton had shrugged. "I thought you might want that right now. Just whistle up one of the horses when you're done. They'll bring you back." Then he'd stepped away and closed the door, leaving Steve alone with the horses and no door in sight.

Steve didn't want to make a life here. Steve wanted to go home. Steve wanted to go home and laugh with Sam and serve his Queens and see Bucky. He wanted to hold Bucky and touch Bucky and tell Bucky, after all these years, that he loved him. It was Bucky he wanted to make a life with.

 

***

 

Bucky rode out at dawn, Steve's shield strapped to his back, and he rode out alone.

It was a long ride up into the high hills, but his mare was swift and sure-footed and they arrived faster than Bucky had expected. He loosened her saddle and swapped her bridle for a halter before tying her to a tree with enough slack that she could graze.

The bushes were still in brilliant flower, their delicate fragrance scenting the air, and he made his way over to stand near them.

If he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, he almost thought he could see a faint blue shimmer in the air. But it could have been imagination. It could have been wishful thinking. It could have been a trick of the light.

It didn't matter. Steve would be returning. And when he came back, he'd walk through the space between these bushes. He wouldn’t have his sword, or his knives, but Bucky could do one thing for him. He could make sure he'd have his shield.

Bucky drew a dagger he'd brought along just for this, an old one he didn't care if he ruined, and walked around the bushes—cautiously, carefully, like they were sleeping panthers who might wake and maul him—knelt, and used the dagger to dig a deep groove in the turf. He stabbed and twisted and scraped and dug and when he was done, he pulled Steve's shield off his back and drove it down deep into the soil.

It jutted up from the earth, defiant, a declaration, and it was impossible to believe that Steve wouldn’t return to claim it. No one would touch it. Everyone would know whose shield it was, not one person on this island would touch it, and it would be here waiting for him when he stepped out of fae lands.

Satisfied, Bucky stood, brushed himself off, and cleaned up the dagger as best he could. Before he rode off, he paused. "I’m going to come back," he promised the shield, or promised Steve. He wasn't sure which he was talking to, but he promised all the same.

 

***

 

One thing Steve hadn't expected to find in fae lands was boredom.

But here he was bored.

He was bored out of his mind.

There was nothing for him to do.

He scratched his chin and wandered through the sea-glass palace, staring up at the dizzyingly high ceilings, wondering idly why he wasn't growing a beard.

"Steve."

He turned to find Clinton smiling at him. "Hey, how come I don't have a beard?"

"Personal preference?"

He'd learned by now that Clinton had a gift for giving him shit with an utterly innocent face. This was a perfect example. Steve gave him the look he'd perfected to bring raw recruits into line.

"Because the Queen doesn't like them."

Steve stood and blinked while he stared at nothing. It was a feeling he'd gotten used to. Eventually he said, "The legends all say time runs differently in fae lands."

"It does, but that's not why you're not growing a beard. The Queen doesn't like them so she's making sure you don't have one. She's working hard to make sure time runs the same for you as it does in human lands. Just in case this time the bargain gets fulfilled."

"Oh."

"Time is different here. It's not the time you know. It can loop and twist and turn back on itself and at least eight times as long has passed here than has passed in human lands since the bargain was struck. My advice? Don't think about it. Humans weren't made for time in fae lands, and the Queen's taking care of you."

"Why?"

Clinton suddenly looked cagey. "I'm not sure I should answer that." When Steve nodded in understanding, he looked surprised. "You're not going to push?"

"She's your Queen. I have two. I understand."

"Right." He looked up, scratched his throat, and said, "I think she hates the bargain as much as you do. Come on, there's something you might want to hear."

He gestured at Steve to follow him. Steve did, even if his mind was reeling at the thought of Queen Wanda hating this as much as he did. While Clinton led him through the door that led to the grassy field that held the gate to human lands, he picked the thought apart, examined it. She hadn't made the bargain. She hadn't had anything to do with it. She was stuck with it, the same as Sciatha.

"Here. Listen." Clinton waved a hand, the blue shimmer of the gate grew brighter, and Bucky's voice wrapped him in warmth so strong he had to sit down in the soft grass.

Bucky's voice. _Bucky's voice._ "It's really him?" he whispered to Clinton.

Clinton nodded. "He's at the gate. Talking." A shrewd look. "To you."

Steve shut up and just listened.

_"…the same as they were when you left. The Queens asked me to be Captain, but I refused, same as when you asked. I don't think Queen Romanov was happy, but I think Queen Carter understands. Understanding won't stop her from getting mad, but she's not there yet. And I get it, I do, it would be better for discipline if there was a Captain, but they don't understand your people. They listen to me the same way they would have listened to you, even without your fancy title, because you trained them so well. There's not a problem and there's not going to be."_

"Oh, Bucky," he said softly. "You don't…" Even now, after all this time, he still thought the Royal Guard only followed him because Steve had trained them well, and not because they loved him, they trusted him, just as much as they did Steve. He shook his head. "Are you ever going to see it?"

" _Pirate activity's down. Sam's idea of allying with the coastal nations to protect each other's shipping has worked wonders. We haven't lost a single vessel so far this season and neither have the other nations."_

"I knew Sam's idea was going to work."

 _"Other than that,"_ there was a long pause, and Steve found himself leaning forward, in case he missed something, _"I miss you, Steve."_

"I miss you, too, Buck."

After that, there was nothing.

"He's gone," Clinton said gently, making Steve jump. He'd completely forgotten he was there.

"Thank you for that."

Clinton shrugged.

"No, really. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

 

***

 

The sky was lit by half a moon, providing barely enough light to see by as Bucky sloshed barefoot through the surf.

He _wanted_ to go talk to Steve, but it would have meant a long ride over rocky paths and he wouldn't risk a horse to indulge what had become his regular pastime.

Bucky knew people thought it was strange, he knew people were concerned—Sam in particular had given him more than a few long looks—but no one had said anything to him. Which was probably just as well. Being able to talk to Steve, even though he knew he wasn't really talking to Steve, helped.

It helped with the waiting. It helped with the regret that instead of hugging Steve he hadn't put both hands on his face, pulled him in, and kissed him. It helped with the way his love for Steve kept settling deeper and deeper into his bones with every day that passed.

And it helped when things like today happened.

Bucky knew, at least he _understood_ even if he could never actually _know_ , that being Queen didn't leave room for sentimentality. They had to be practical. They had to think of the kingdom first. That was the way it had to be. Bucky understood.

It still didn't make it any easier when, for the second time, his Queens sat him down and asked him to step into the position of Captain of the Royal Guard.

He'd said no. Of course he'd said no. There'd been times Steve had been gone longer than this, which he'd respectfully pointed out.

They'd both given him near identical looks of sympathy and he'd _known_. Neither of them expected Steve to come back. Bucky could even understand why. He didn't share it, he didn't believe it, but he could understand. No one who'd gone to the fae lands to try and meet the bargain had ever returned. They were drawing on the experience of history, which was a very, almost _perfectly_ , highborn thing to do and you didn't get much more highborn than a queen.

But Bucky wasn't highborn. He'd been born in a merc camp. The only history he had worth the name was the history of Steve believing in him.

"I told you," he said to the moon, "he will come back."

The moon didn't contradict him. It wouldn’t dare.

 

***

 

Steve was wearing a crown of leaves. He wasn't sure why, except he had no capacity to say no to children, even if they were fae children.

They were the first fae he'd seen that weren't Clinton or the Queen, or the Prince, or the baby who'd started this all. They'd shown up in the wide green field to claim horses and found him instead. They'd stared at him, quiet compared to the pages Steve was used to dealing with, but they had the same look of curiosity about them.

He'd waved.

They'd taken it as invitation and come over. Steve had noticed most of the horses had followed, like they were watching over the kids, and Steve imagined if he had intended some harm, those giant hooves could handily have turned him into a smear on the ground.

But he hadn't intended them any harm. He couldn’t imagine ever harming a child, fae, human, or otherwise, if there was anything else out there. They'd seemed a little wary, so he'd sat down on the grass, making himself smaller, and they'd crowded closer.

"You're the human," one had said, a tall, willowy girl with long white hair and deep black skin and eyes the same pale blue as the sky.

"I am," Steve had replied.

"Tell us a human story?" she'd asked.

So Steve had found himself dredging up a forgotten tale from the depths of his memory—he was positive he'd gotten several mixed up, but they'd flowed together well enough—to a rapt audience of happy fae kids and a watchful audience of fae horses.

When the story was done, the kids had consulted silently among themselves and the girl who'd spoken to him pulled a crown of leaves from nowhere and gestured at him to lean forward. He'd obeyed and she'd placed it gently on his head. "It was a good story," she'd told him solemnly, and they'd all gotten up and left, finding horses and galloping away.

It had been baffling and strange but kind of heart-warming, knowing kids were kids everywhere, even here in fae lands.

Steve left his crown on when he whistled up a horse of his own, gently fending off her attempt to eat it.

Clinton flat out laughed at him when Steve returned to the sea-glass palace, but Steve just lifted his head proudly. "They liked my stories."

"I can see that."

 

***

 

Part of taking on Steve's duties while he was gone was training his people, working with the old hands, the experienced guards, which was fun, they were good at what they did, they could push Bucky, give him some challenge. It also meant working with the new guards, the ones who were still learning, and that was about being gentle with them, teaching them, sometimes getting them to ease back a bit, because most of them were like eager puppies, young men and women who wanted to jump right into everything,

He enjoyed them and their innocent puppy ways, and he maybe had more fun impressing them than he should. He didn't feel too bad about it. He'd caught Steve doing the same thing more than once—except Bucky called it _showing off_ when Steve did it and got to watch the corners of Steve's eyes crinkle while he tried to hide his grin behind an unimpressed scowl.

Bucky was facing off with Martin, who'd only been with them for a few months, but he'd grown up on the island, and he used to be a blacksmith, so he was strong. Bucky was drawing him out, each move of his sword inviting Martin to respond with something he'd been taught, but as they progressed, moving back and forth across the training room, Bucky could see he was starting to tire.

Bucky grinned, the corner of his mouth pulling up, and Martin's eyes lit up, because Bucky's grin always meant they were going to see something fancy.

With a twist, a pull, a pivot, and an entirely unnecessary shimmy of his hips that drew laughter from the men and women watching, Bucky was suddenly holding Martin's sword in his metal hand, and he tossed it to land lightly in a safe spot.

Martin's mouth dropped open and he stared. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with awe. "Damn, Captain, that was incredible."

Out of nowhere, a tinder sparked in Bucky's heart, roared into wildfire, and he shoved Martin against the wall, metal arm against his throat. "Don't," he ground out. "Don't call me that. I am not your Captain. Steve is your Captain. Steve. Not me."

Martin's eyes were wide, but they weren't scared. Bucky could see the racing pulse in his throat, but there was no fear as he looked up at Bucky.  

 _What in the endless depths are you doing?_ The voice in his head sounded like Steve.

Bucky stepped back, hand held high, palm out—no threat, no harm. He could feel every eye watching them. "I'm sorry," he said, loud enough everyone would hear. 

"No, I shouldn't have—"

"No." He made it final. "Martin. You did nothing wrong. This is on me." He breathed in through his nose, let it out through his mouth. Pitched his voice loud as he said, "If you need to call me something, if calling me Bucky doesn't work, call me _sir_. I can work with that." He let his gaze rove around the training room. "I give you my word, that won't happen again." He rubbed his hand through his hair and turned to go. "But I am going to call it a day."

"Sir?" Bucky turned back. Martin was watching him, and Bucky could see concern in his eyes. "You didn't hurt me. You'd never hurt me. You'd never hurt any of us." His little flicker of a smile warmed Bucky's heart and the murmur of agreement that came from the others overwhelmed him. "I mean, more than you're supposed to," he added with half a grin.

Bucky bowed his head, said a completely inadequate, "Thanks," and made his escape.

 

***

 

 _"I almost hurt someone in training yesterday."_ Bucky sounded guilty, sounded like he was hurting, and Steve wanted to wrap him up in his arms.

Not possible, unfortunately.

He wondered if he should even be listening to Bucky like this. Bucky didn't know Steve could hear him. For all that Bucky was acting like he was talking to him, Steve doubted he really thought he was.

With a twinge of guilt of his own, Steve decided to keep listening. Bucky's voice was the only link he had back to the human world and he needed that. He needed that reminder that the human world was real.

Clinton had said time ran differently in fae lands, he'd said that the Queen was working to make sure it ran for him like it did in human lands, but it still felt strange here. It felt timeless. The sun didn't rise or set. Here in the fae fields it was always a permanent midday, and the sea-glass palace was cast in a permanent sunrise. Steve was starting to desperately miss the night.

And he didn't seem to need sleep.

He _could_ sleep, he had a room in the sea-glass palace, but it didn't seem to matter if he did or not.

This was not his world. These lands were entirely different from the place he belonged, and he knew in his heart Bucky would never begrudge him the anchor of his voice.

_"Martin, you know, the kid who joined up at the end of last year?"_

Steve knew the one. Big guy, not really a kid, but he and Bucky both had that tendency to refer to the recruits as kids.

 _"He called me Captain. He didn't mean anything by it but respect. I know that, but I lost it for a second. I didn't hurt him,_ " Bucky added quickly. _"I could have, but I didn't."_

It wasn't something he needed to say. Steve knew Bucky wouldn't. He'd never seen Bucky hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, and he'd never seen Bucky hurt anyone who couldn’t hurt him back, whether they deserved it or not. Bucky was a lot of things, most of them complicated, some of them damn annoying, all of them everything Steve loved, but he wasn't a bully.

_"But we need to work on that kid, because he wasn't scared. Not even for a second."_

Steve rolled his eyes. "It's not the kid we need to work on."

 _"But he's okay, and I talked to everyone about what happened. Told him if they need to call me something, they can call me sir. I wish they'd just call me Bucky_ ," he grumbled, _"but I guess I can live with it if that's what they need."_

Steve laughed. He lay back in the soft green grass under the warm sun and laughed, because Bucky sounded so disgruntled. He hated when people called him _sir_. He hated when people called him Hound. He complained when people called him anything but Bucky, and here he was letting, no, _inviting_ people to call him _sir_ if they needed to. Maybe he could learn after all.

 _"You need to hurry it up over there and come back. I miss you. This would be better if you were here. Damn giant kids wouldn't call me Captain for a start. But especially…"_ Bucky stopped and let out a long, soft sigh and Steve closed his eyes, imaging he was right there beside Bucky.

_"Bye, Steve. I'll be back as soon as I can."_

"Bye, Buck."

"He's in love with you," Clinton observed.

"No," Steve said without opening his eyes. "I'm in love with him." The words rolled off his tongue so easily, considering they were the first time he'd ever said them out loud.

"Hmm."

"I am," Steve promised. "It's been long enough I'm sure. Trust me."

"You should never say trust me to the fae."

Steve opened his eyes and looked up. Clinton was leaning against one of the chunky horses, and there was an owl perched on her crest. All three of them were regarding Steve.  

"Why not?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. It's just something everyone says: _Never say trust me to the fae_. I don't even know if you guys started it or us."

Steve pushed up on his elbows. "Okay. Then how about this: you trust me, and I'll trust you. I mean, I already have been. I didn't have a choice, which could water it down a bit, I don't know." All three of them, fae, horse, and owl, were now _staring_ at Steve. "What do you think?"

"I think you're very strange, even for a human."

Steve smiled. "Yeah. I've been told that before."

 

***

 

In a lot of ways what was currently happening was Sam's fault.

Sam was the one who'd suggested sending out feelers to the coastal nations. Sam was the one who'd suggested mutual protection alliances for each other's shipping. That meant it was technically Sam's fault that Sciatha was currently playing host to diplomats from those coastal nations, diplomats who'd come to talk about the success of their current alliance and possibilities for the future.

Right when Steve was away. Right when the Royal Guard was most needed. Bucky was not happy to be wearing Steve's ceremonial armour, hastily nipped and tucked to an acceptable fit and thank the depths it wasn't plate. _Not happy_ didn't begin to cover it.

Bucky _did_ want to get into Steve's armour. It was a current burning desire, but this was not what he'd had in mind.

He was also extremely unhappy to be introduced as the Captain of the Royal Guard, but he grit his teeth and bore up under it. He understood there was power posturing going on that required certain things from everyone in the royal household. He would play his part while holding fast to the fact that Steve would be coming back to reclaim his armour.

And then Bucky would hopefully be able to get him out of it.

 

***

 

"Are you all right?"

Bucky didn't turn his head. He leaned on the stone parapet and stared out at the moon, which was staring back down at him, looking like a cat's eye tilted on its side. He'd come up here to the high tower to be alone, since heading up to the high hills was out of the question. With everything gone diplomatic he might be needed.

"Bucky?"

He sighed. "I'm fine, Sam."

"You don't sound fine," he said delicately. "And to be honest, you don't look very fine."

"What do you want me to do about it? Complaining isn't going to magically make everything better."

"No. But sharing can sometimes help."

Bucky laughed quietly. "I've been sharing, thanks."

"Yeah, I've heard."

He cut his eyes sideways. Sam was leaning on the parapet, facing the sky, but he was watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

"You mean going up to the high hills," Bucky said.

"Mmmm."

"Someone has to."

"Do they?"

Bucky sighed again. "Spit it out, Sam. I know it's been eating at you."

"I'm worried about you, is all. We all miss Steve. We all want him to come back. But you…" Sam trailed off and drummed his fingers on the stone. "I don't know. You seem, I don't want to say obsessed, but…"

"But you're going to."

"I am, but only because I don't know another word."

Bucky nodded. "You know it's none of your business, right? I'm not even in your chain of command."

"Little thing you're overlooking there, Bucky."

"What's that?"

"The part where I'm your friend?"

"You're Steve's friend."

Sam hung his head in what looked like exasperation. "Yes, and here's an amazing thing: people can have more than one friend. I have Steve as a friend. I also—although I do wonder if I ticked off some goddess with a sense of humour to end up here—have you."

Bucky turned his head and stared at Sam, because it had never occurred to him that Sam was _his_ friend. Sam was Steve's friend. They'd always gotten along, more or less, in a friendly antagonistic way they both seemed to enjoy, but he'd honestly never thought…

"Are you just figuring this out now?" Sam asked, sounding amused.

"Shut up."

"Damn, you're slow."

"Shut up."

"Uh huh, that's not going to happen."

Bucky scowled.

"Anyway, back to my original point." His expression smoothed over, eyes deep with concern. "I'm worried about you. You're up there almost every day, you never take Steve's sword off. It kills me to think about, but Bucky, for your own good, you might need to start allowing for the possibility that Steve won't come back."

"No."

"Bucky."

"No, Sam."

It was Sam's turn to sigh.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me."

Bucky closed his eyes, reaching down behind his heart, trying to find words to give voice to something so big, so all encompassing, it hummed against the inside of his skin. "Steve was the first person who ever believed in me," he finally said. "He gave me a home, he gave me a place to belong, he believed in me when he had no reason to. I won't do any less for him, I will never do any less for him," he opened his eyes to stare unblinking at the moon, "and…"

"And?"

It was right there, bright and golden, waiting to be said. "And I love him."

"I love him, too, Bucky, but—"

"Sam." He turned to face him.

"Oh." Sam was silent for a moment. "I see." He seemed to be considering it. "That makes more sense, at least. It's still not healthy, but it makes more sense."

Bucky gave him a half smile. "I don't care that much about healthy or sense. I'll believe in him until the day I die."

 

***

 

"You want to hold it like this." Steve lowered the wooden sword he was holding so the fae kids could get a good look at his grip, then lifted it, shifted his feet, and struck...

...nothing. He struck nothing, but the point wasn't to hit something, it was to show them the proper form.

"See? That way you come in under your opponent's guard."

He got a whole series of enthusiastic nods and they all had a go. He moved among them, ducking out of the way of swung swords, gently adjusting their grips, then stood back and let them practice.

He'd had to find something to do and he knew how to do this. He and Bucky were in charge of the pages' training, and he'd figured these fae kids, whatever else they were learning, wouldn’t have been taught human swordsmanship. He'd been right, and they'd jumped at the chance to try.

He understood from Clinton his offer had caused something of a scandal, and not all the kids who'd been part of the story circle had been allowed to learn, but most of them were here. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and so was he. Clinton was lounging near the gate, chewing a long stalk of grass, his bow and quiver next to him, when suddenly the gate shimmered and Bucky's voice rang through the air.

_"I don't have long. We've got diplomats from three different nations here, if it wasn't for Queen Carter I think Queen Romanov would have pitched one over the battlements by now, and I have to go back and pretend to be you. Not you you, but pretend to be Captain."_

Steve left his kids, who lowered their wooden swords to watch him out of cat-slit eyes, and went to stand near the gate.

 _"I just needed to tell you this. I should have told you first, but somehow that ended up being Sam."_ Bucky sounded downright irritated and Steve hid a smile even though he knew Bucky couldn’t see him. _"I love you."_

Steve's heart paused, like it had to be sure of what it had heard.

Thankfully, Bucky repeated it. _"I love you. I love you more than I could ever say, but all I've got are words."_

He laughed, and Steve's heart slammed back into action.

 _"Words you can't even hear but I needed to tell you anyway. I love you. I'll tell you when you come back. Hell,"_ his voice dropped, got growly and low, _"I'm hoping to show you."_

Steve, knowing everyone could hear, knowing the _kids_ could hear, felt a blush crawl across his cheeks.

_"I have to go. Be safe, come back soon, I love you."_

Silence fell, complete and absolute, until Clinton broke it, saying, "I told you," and Steve laughed and laughed as joy flooded him.

 

 

***

 

The diplomats eventually left, life in the castle returned to as close to normal as it could get with Steve gone, and Bucky was able to shed the trappings of Steve's role.

The days ticked past. His pilgrimages up into the high hills to the fae gate were daily now, the sight of Steve's shield gleaming in the space between the bushes sparking a cycle of hope and disappointment and hope renewed. If Steve had returned, his shield wouldn’t be there, but the shield was Steve's and Steve would return. Right there. Right there where Bucky had planted his shield.

He kept talking to him, kept him updated on everything he was missing.

And he ended every one-sided conversation with _I love you._ It felt so damn good to say.

 

***

 

Steve stared at Queen Wanda's daughter, the future Queen of these fey lands, tiny and fragile and helpless, as she gnawed on her stuffed dragon, and thought about the difference between being responsible and being a catalyst.

It was hard not to stare at her. She was lying on his chest.

She was the catalyst for everything, for him being here in fae lands, but she wasn't responsible for it. All she'd done was be born.

Queen Wanda wasn't responsible either. It was her ancestor, hers and Queen Carter's, who'd doomed them, the two ancient kings conspiring together to strike a bargain that would trap their descendants on a path they'd probably never escape. Two ancient kings who, Steve guessed, had prized only cleverness, who'd each thought they were the cleverest, each believing they bested the other to win a tremendous bargain.

Steve wasn't even sure they were wrong, at least from their points of view. Sciatha's king got what he wanted: a huge, fertile, defensible land and all it cost him was the lives of people he'd never know. The fae king got what he wanted: guaranteed entertainment for his descendants in exchange for humans living on land he didn't care about and never used.

All in all, Steve decided the Sciathan king had gotten the better deal, because the fae in these lands hadn't gotten away unscathed. They were infected with humanity. They'd have been better off killing the humans left in these fae lands when their people failed the test; instead they'd let them live, let them become part of their lives and now, in ways big and small, some of them were a little bit human.

He wondered if it affected how they dealt with fae from other lands. He supposed he could ask the Queen, since she'd gone away to those other lands to find a father for her child.

The child in question stopped gnawing on her dragon and banged her tiny chubby fists against his chest. "Yes, you're very strong," Steve intoned solemnly. "I'm gravely injured."

She laughed and went back to gnawing.

He wouldn't ask. He was shocked she'd trusted him with her child. The last…he didn't know how long; with no days, no beard, it was impossible to measure time, but it had been awhile…the palace had been busy, the Queen and the Prince grim-faced, Clinton in demand, and he hadn't had time to come with Steve to the gate so he could hear Bucky.

Steve had found himself reverting to old habits, natural instincts asserting themselves. The sea-glass palace was almost a castle, Queen Wanda and Prince Pietro were royalty, and Steve could feel stress and impending crisis in the air. His whole life had been spent dealing with those. He couldn't help staying close by in case he was needed.

He'd been standing in the corner, talking to Clinton about the different fletching he used on his arrows, when three obviously worried fae had come bursting in, making a beeline for the Queen and the Prince. After a brief, hushed conversation that Clinton was pulled into, the Queen had looked up, beckoned Steve over, and handed him her child.

"We’ll be back soon. The palace is sealed. Look after her."

Then they'd disappeared. Vanished. Leaving Steve with the future Queen and Clinton's bow and quiver. He'd been almost as touched by Clinton leaving those as with the Queen handing him the royal child, because to Clinton he thought they were about the same.

Steve settled back, Clinton's bow in ready reach, and gently ran a finger over the baby's head. Her hair was silken soft.

"I guess we've all got legacies we have to live down," he murmured. "It's not like my kingdom was any prize."

She burped once, which he took as fair commentary, and her eyes slowly closed. Eventually she fell asleep, cradled in his arms.

 

***

 

Bucky had expected to be alone when he saddled his horse. It was late in the evening, dusk was approaching, and no one had ever tried to join him on his rides up into the high hills.

Tonight, though. Tonight, the stables were busy. Sam was there. So was Neta, who'd lately taken to acting like she was _Bucky's_ page—and they were going to have to talk about that, because only the highborn took pages—but that wasn't going to be tonight. She'd already saddled the bay mare he preferred, and she wordlessly shoved the reins into his hands while she went to saddle the sleek grey gelding she usually rode.

"What?" he asked the air.

Sam, leading his blue roan mare, said, "It's the next full moon."

That didn't really clear anything up and he said so.

"It's the fae. Full moon to full moon. If Steve's coming back—"

Bucky hit him with the full force of his glare.

"Don't glare at me like that, you know that's not what I meant. He left at moonrise on the last full moon, so it would fit with the tales if he returned at the next full moon. Which is today. Some of us thought we'd ride up with you tonight. Just in case."

Bucky was torn. Part of him wanted to be angry, that now that they thought they had a reason for Steve to maybe walk back through the gate, _now_ they were making the ride up. But he knew that was irrational, knew half the reason no one had ever joined him was because they'd been leaving it to him, they'd been giving him his space.

The other part of him, and it was a part that felt and sounded a lot like Steve, was warmed through. They did believe. They did believe Steve would come back. Maybe they'd had moments of doubt. Maybe they'd planned for what to do if he didn't. But they did believe in Steve.

"Then let's go."

He led his horse into the yard and mounted. Sam fell in on his left, Neta on his right, and they cantered out of the castle yard, a small group of people behind them. He and the mare knew the way, Bucky was certain they could do it in full dark if they had to, but they held to a walk once they reached the rocky trails for the sake of the others.

When they came out into the clearing that held the willowy bushes—and Bucky was struck all over again by how innocuous they were—Sam asked, "Is that Steve's shield?"

"Yes," Bucky replied, and Sam didn't ask any more questions.

The full moon rose, a perfect pale disc in the darkening sky, the sun set, and lanterns were lit, because everyone but Bucky had had the sense to bring them, fastened to their horse's saddles. Neta passed him the spare she'd brought and he tied it to saddle at his knee.

They waited and they waited and the moon rose higher, casting the men and women and horses in unearthly silver light. The only movement at the gate was the flutter of pale pink petals as the wind stirred the branches.

Eventually, amid disappointed murmurs, they turned and left. Bucky stayed a little longer, watching the moonlight reflect off Steve's shield. Sam stayed with him, and Neta, but he could tell they, too, were disappointed.

Bucky wasn't. His hope, his belief had never been contingent on the phases of the moon. It rested on a man. It rested on Steve.

And Steve would return.

 

***

 

 

The next day was long, and Bucky knew it had been difficult for a lot of people. Sadness had wafted through the castle, carried on the scent of still blooming wild thyme, steps had been slower, voices had been hushed, muted.

It was why, as night fell, he'd escaped to the beach.

The water lapping at Bucky's feet was warmer than it should have been for this time of year, and he stared up at the moon, rising lopsided after the perfect disc of last night when it had cast its light over everyone gathered in their moment of belief up in the high hills.

Trying to lighten spirits wasn't something that came easily to him, but he'd spent the day trying. Mostly he'd given people things to do, lots of things to do, but they were tasks he'd known they could do well and hopefully it had helped. And he'd worked Steve's guard into the ground, giving every single one of them a chance to spar with him and giving every single one of them a chance to shine, because they all had some skill, some trick, some tiny thing they were great at. Today, he'd reminded of them that.

They'd needed that reminder. He hadn't known how many of them had been secretly hoping Steve would return at the full moon until he'd seen how many were devastated when he hadn't.

Not Bucky. He was exhausted after today, but nothing had changed.

It made him feel like everyone else was like the moon, their belief in Steve's return waxing and waning, sometimes going dark completely before flaring back into life. Always for good reasons. Always understandable. But here he was with his belief like the sun, burning always bright, and it would never, ever waver.

Maybe Sam was right, maybe that was obsessive. He wasn't sure. When Steve returned, if he didn't love Bucky the way Bucky loved him, Bucky knew he'd survive. He wouldn’t try and make Steve love him, he would never force the issue, he'd simply accept it.

And it wasn't his love that made him believe. They were two different things, equally powerful, equally bright.

 

***

 

"Steve."

He woke instantly, reaching for his sword. It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't there. It was buckled around Bucky's waist. Bucky who loved him.

"Steve!"

"Clinton."

"You know, you can probably call me Clint."

Steve blinked up at him from the ridiculously ornate bed, carved wood and ivory and inlaid gold, heaped with furs he didn't need because the temperature never changed.

"Okay?"

"But not for long."

"What?"

"Come on."

Clinton… _Clint_ turned his back, Steve climbed out of bed and pulled on the clothes that were waiting for him, and followed as Clint led him to the cavernous sunlit room. The Queen and the Prince were sitting on a red velvet couch, the baby asleep in her cradle next to them.

The Prince looked pleased. The Queen was smiling.

"Steve," she said. "It's time."

"Time for what?"

"For you to go."

"You're sending me away?"

He didn't want to leave. He was used to it here, even with the lack of day and night, the timeless, endless nature of it all. He didn't want to get used to a new place, to new fae.

The looks that passed between the three of them were concerned. "You don't want to go back?" Clint asked carefully.

Steve froze. "Wait, what?"

"Back. To human lands."

Light exploded inside him. He looked down at his hands to make sure it wasn't leaking out. "Back?"

"Yes, back," the Queen said, smiling again. "The bargain has been met. Someone kept perfect faith from full moon to full moon, plus one day."

Steve's jaw worked as that sunk in, because it was so deliberate, so carefully constructed to work against everything people tended to believe. "…plus one day."

"Yes."

"Your ancestor was a son of a—" He caught it before it escaped.

"Yes," she agreed, even though he hadn't said it.   

"And so was my Queen's."

She inclined her head diplomatically. "You weren't allowed to know how long you'd have to wait, but it's done, now. It's over. The bargain is sealed, as will the gate to fae land be once you've passed through it."

Steve's mind worked, ideas flashing like a hooked tuna, and he said, "What if you didn't do that?"

"You want to make a new bargain?" Dismay painted her face and the Prince went stiff beside her.

"No. No bargain. Nothing like that. I'm asking, one neighbour to another, don't seal the gate yet. Was there a time in which it had to be done?"

"No," she said cautiously after a look at the Prince.

"Then wait. Let me speak to my Queens about my time here. We're not the people our ancestors were. We're who we choose to be _now_. The same is true for you. The legacy of the past is done, it's over. Maybe you'll chose to seal the gate. But maybe you won't. Our blood, our humanity, has become part of your people. Maybe there's a chance to find out what that could mean for both of us. No bargains. Just—"

He looked at Clint, who rubbed the back of his neck before saying, "Just trust?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah. Just trust."

After a long tense moment, and Steve had no idea what was going to happen, the Queen said, "We'll consider it."

Steve bowed low. Clint gently caught his arm and pulled him away through the halls, heading for the door that led to the grassy fields, but by the time they reached it Steve was towing him. Steve leaped through it, landing on the grass with a thump, and ran for the gate.

"Open it." He'd tried for a question, but it came out as an order and all he could do was shrug helplessly.

Clint only smiled up at the sky. "Just wait. I sent a messenger."

 

***

 

Bucky leaned down and rolled his pants up higher, waded out further into the rolling tide, and stared up at the moon. It was cool and beautiful. It was to the moon he'd first sworn that Steve would return, to the moon and the ocean, and he could always come back to them. They'd always be here.

Except…

He frowned up into the sky as a dark cloud blocked the moon's light and a buzzing hum filled the air.

Eyes wide, he splashed back to the beach, but it was gaining on him, coming closer, and he stood stock still as memory slammed down on him, carried on the wings of thousands of bees, their droning buzz filling his ears, filling the air with the sound of hope.

Bees didn't do this, didn't fly like this, didn't swarm like this. He was drowning in an ocean of bees, buzzing waves pulling him under, but he hadn't been stung. This could only be the swarm who'd carried the message that had taken Steve away.

And there was only one reason they could be here.

_Steve._

He laughed and the bees buzzed faster, spiralling around and around in a whirling tornado of hope. "Is it him? Is he back?"

They didn't answer, this time there were no words, but they spiralled up, a silhouette against the moon, and shot off towards the high hills.

Bucky ran for the stables, boots forgotten on the beach, not caring that his feet were getting scratched and bruised. He ran past the guards at the castle gate, who stared after him but didn't say anything, because he was Bucky and if he wanted to run around in bare feet with wet pants they weren't going to stop him.

The bay mare wasn't pleased to see him, but she stood patiently as he saddled her and then he had to find boots—a too-big pair left behind in the tack room that he shoved on, because he wasn't stupid enough to ride in bare feet—before they were galloping out over the fields.

He blessed the moon, he blessed the mare who knew the way so well even in the rising dark, and they cantered up the hills, over the rocky paths, and he was being reckless, so reckless, a poor way to treat so faithful a horse, and he made himself slow, letting her pick her way at her own pace. But she seemed to sense his urgency, or she wanted to get back to her stable as fast as possible, and given her head she turned on the speed, moving with unerring precision, and soon they were sliding to a stop in front of the bushes.

Nothing had changed.

Steve's shield gleamed in the moonlight.

Bucky dismounted, tied the reins to a tree, and cautiously approached. His heart was in his throat. He could hardly breathe.

Was there a shimmer of blue? Was it the moonlight? Was it his imagination?

No.

Between one breath and the next Steve appeared. Steve, weaponless, wearing deep blue silk and leather and the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever set eyes on.

Bucky hit him at a run and wrapped his arms around him. Steve staggered but caught him, just like Bucky had known he would. "Steve."

"Bucky." Steve dragged him close and held him so tightly Bucky felt his ribs creak and all he wanted was for Steve to hold him _tighter_. "Bucky Bucky Bucky."

He didn't have words, all he could do was shake his head and press his face into Steve's shoulder.

"I could hear you," Steve said. "I could hear you. I don’t know if I could always hear you, I couldn’t see you, but I could hear you and Bucky, I love you, too. I love you. So much. I just, I love you."

Bucky laughed. It was all he could do with the joy welling up in him. "Good," he managed to get out. "Then you won't mind if I do this."

He leaned back, caught Steve's face between his hands, and kissed him. He kissed him deep and thoroughly, putting everything he felt into it, and Steve pulled him closer, one hand dragging up his spine to cradle the back of his head as Steve answered him, matched him, perfectly in sync, perfectly in tune, and Steve was _here_ and Bucky _loved him_ and he _loved_ _Bucky_ and everything was right with the world.

"Don't mind at all," Steve said, grinning like his face was going to split when he pulled back just enough to speak. "I'd like you to do it again. All the time. How about you just never stop?"

"I might need something from you if you want that," Bucky said, striving for a straight face and failing miserably.

Steve pressed the lightest of kisses to his bottom lip, gave it a gentle nip, while his hands traced their way over Bucky's body. "What's that." 

"I might need to keep your sword. And I might need to give you mine."

Steve's eyes dropped to where it rested at Bucky's hip and he reached down to touch the pommel, then trailed his fingers up Bucky's side, across his chest, over his collarbone, up his neck to cradle his cheek. His eyes were deep and intent. "I might need something from _you_ if you want that," he said softly, seriously.

Bucky's heart beat faster, fluttering like a bird's wings, but he turned his head to press a kiss to Steve's palm and whispered, "What's that?" against his skin.

"I might need you to marry me."

They both went still, then they were kissing again, soft, open mouthed, Steve's hands in Bucky's hair, Bucky's hands under Steve's shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, and there was nothing in the world for either of them but each other.


End file.
